


Game Night with the Thrombeys

by wysiwygot



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fingerfucking, Pre-Canon, Vomiting, Wealth disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wysiwygot/pseuds/wysiwygot
Summary: Last Fourth of July, during a game of Mafia at Harlan Thrombey's house, Hugh Ransom Drysdale learns something very peculiar about his grandfather's "Brazilian nurse," Marta Cabrera.Content warning: Marta definitely pukes, retches, and dry-heaves in this fic, but I don't go into it in graphic detail. It's not her fault! Guess whose fault it is? No, really, guess. Come on. Guess.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	Game Night with the Thrombeys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAstronomer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomer/gifts).



“Well? Are you winning? Harlan _always_ wins these kinds of games.” 

“I can’t tell? I think we’re winning but I’m barely playing. I’m just letting Harlan do all the work,” Marta confessed, passing Fran the three dirty plates she’d brought in from the parlor. “I think Ransom is getting bored. He keeps sighing … when he’s not yelling.”

Yes, Ransom Drysdale was really alternating between bellowing and looking bored. It took talent to do this in the middle of a tense game of wits against his grandfather, a legendary wit. Ransom even had the audacity to look bored. At least, that’s how he appeared across the table, manspreading in ragged cargo shorts and a very tight white t-shirt in the sticky evening air of a muggy Massachusetts July. Even when he was arguing with someone, which was almost always, Ransom looked a little bored. It was his resting and probably his non-resting face. 

Marta imagined slapping him in that face: Ransom’s smug, sunburned, smirking, (handsome,) superior, _bored_ face. He was so ungrateful. Everything was a hassle to him. Couldn’t he just enjoy himself with his amazing, brilliant family for a few hours?

“Uh, yeah, he looked bored because he’s _boring._ Ransom’s a _bore_. _”_

Fran, the housekeeper, was salty, resentful about having to stay at the mansion after hours on a weekend. She didn’t have to be salty to hate on Ransom, though. She hated early and often, mostly to Marta. And sometimes Meg. And also Joni. Marta had even heard her complain about Ransom to Linda, his own mom. Fran calling Ransom by his middle name was an especially egregious act of defiance, as he insisted that the people who worked at the house call him “Hugh.” Fran only said “Ransom” when he was out of earshot.

Marta sighed and leaned against the butcher block. Her stomach wasn’t feeling so hot, which is why she’d eagerly offered to get Harlan another sliver of raspberry pie to go with his third generous “nip” of Madeira, and drop off an armful of dirty plates while she was at it. No one argued at her offer, even though bussing tables was not in her job description. Anyway, she welcomed the opportunity to get away from the game, a murder mystery game in which the players — in this case, a few members of the Thrombey family, plus Marta — were required to use their wits and cunning to determine who was mafia, who was police, and finally, who had committed the “murder.” 

Marta and Harlan were a team, which meant of course that they were at an advantage. _Nobody_ did mystery like Harlan Thrombey. He was one of the greats, everyone said. He’d practically invented the genre. It was basically Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and then Harlan Thrombey. It wasn’t really fair that he was competing, instead of running the game as the impartial moderator, but his post-supper feistiness got the best of him when his grandson, Hugh Ransom Drysdale, declared he was bored enough to play.

“Yes, dear, let’s pretend like you are choosing to stay here with us ... instead of crashing your Alfa two nights ago. Did you know he got his second strike, Walt?” Linda chided. She’d protected her son, of course. Kept him out of jail, where he definitely belonged for driving too fast, too drunk, too rich. Her comment earned her a withering glare from Ransom, followed by a rigid middle finger and a confident smirk, confirming that he was only tolerating family night in because he’d been chastened by a brush with the Staties. He wanted _something_ , certainly, even if it was unclear exactly what it was.

I don't care what he wants, Marta thought. And about Fran’s comment — did she mean Ransom was a “bore” or a “boor?” English homonyms were the bane of Marta’s life. No, the bane of every non-native speaker. Her conversational English was all over the place because of her time with Harlan, a master wordsmith who not infrequently used words like “boor.” 

Marta personally would have gone with _gilipollas_ in describing Ransom: a douchebag, a dickhead, an asshole. Not really boring, but no one would deny that he was an asshole. 

Definitely _boorish_ when it came to games, though. Like Harlan, Ransom was a terrible loser and competitive to the core of his being. He seemed especially competitive with his grandfather. They were two peas in a combative pod.

Safely in the kitchen, Marta thought of how Ransom watched her jump up to fetch Harlan’s pie. He’d leaned back into one of the wingback chairs, tucking his hands behind his head to coolly survey Marta's movements. As he reclined, his t-shirt rode up a little in the front, just enough to expose a swath of dark hair on his lower stomach, leading down into the waistband of his khaki cargo shorts. She only glanced at his abs for a second, just a fraction of a second, but he somehow caught the look. When Marta darted her eyes back to his face, she found a knowing grin and an amused glint in his eye.

He mouthed "busted" at her.

Marta rolled her eyes, careful not to let the rest of the family see her flustered. He was infuriating. Why did a man need to have eyelashes that long? It was just stupid. Maybe they were fake, false, like everything else about Ransom. Maybe he gets lash extensions, Marta stewed. She imagined him in a salon, being serviced by multiple women — one working on his eyelashes, one giving him a manicure, one rubbing his feet … maybe one giving his muscled, broad shoulders a massage — and it made her uneasy.

“I can’t believe Harlan roped you into playing. Weren’t you done for the day?” Fran handed Marta another cold can of Polar seltzer. It was her fourth. She wasn’t technically on the clock, so she might have been able to have an aperol spritz with Linda and Harlan, but she was technically working as Harlan’s nurse and she’d still have to drive home later.

“Yeah, I know. It’s OK. It’s good to see Walt and Linda working together. Anyway, I don’t have to do much. Just let Harlan do his thing.” Marta gratefully accepted the seltzer, hoping the fizz would calm her stomach. She hadn’t actually had to say anything to throw her opponents off the scent in the game — to lie — yet. She let Harlan do all the lying. Which was good, because if she started lying, she’d start barfing, and the mystery wouldn’t be a mystery anymore.

She was angry that she hadn’t been warned before she committed to playing the game, though. “You didn’t tell me this was a _lying_ game,” Marta had hissed quietly at Harlan. Everyone, including Ransom, was distracted as she reprimanded him. Ransom was practically ecstatic at how Walt and his mom were already arguing about something, even though they were on the same team, and the siblings' spat provided enough sound cover for Marta’s reproach to Harlan. “You know I can’t—”

“Relax, relax. It’s all in good fun,” Harlan murmured to her, patting her on the knee with a genial wink. “Your handicap is safe with me. I’ll do all the dirty work.”

He was tickled — that was obvious. He was so in his element. Linda and Harlan played games all throughout her childhood, he’d told her once, and she knew Harlan still enjoyed many a game of Go against Ransom. Walt wasn’t much for games, reportedly, but he did seem to jump at the chance to oppose Harlan the low-stakes circumstance of a family game night. 

Fourth of July seemed a good time for a game night. The Thrombey family, the famed family of high-earning Yankee eccentrics, needed something to bring them together again. Not everyone was into the idea: Richard quickly begged off to work after dinner, even though everyone knew he was really going to the country club; Joni and Meg were out on Martha’s Vineyard for the holiday; and young Jacob was away at a Young Republicans camp or something in the Berkshires for the month. Playing a good old-fashioned social game was Linda’s idea, of course. She wanted a night of friendly rivalry, instead of their normal unfriendly rivalry. A game of cunning, with no prize other than being with family and using their brains. No screens, just a few cocktails and a good competition. 

“Just like old times. You know—”

Linda, the eldest Thombey sibling, interrupted Walt's reverie, talking over him to pick teams: “Ransom, you’ll be on our team. Unless you want to team with Nana?”

Nana, Harlan’s decrepit crone of a mother, was snoring softly in her chair by the open window. She’d eaten the majority of the potato salad at the barbecue on the lawn, and it had knocked her out.

“Nope,” Ransom replied bluntly, popping that terminal “p.” “No offense to Nana, but I’m my own team.”

“That’s not how this works, son,” Walt cautioned, unable to not sound pedantic. It was in the timbre of his voice, even if he was trying to be helpful. “We have to work together to solve the—”

“Excuse me, _uncle_ , but have _you_ played this game before? No?” 

Ransom leaned forward, his tone implying he was intimately acquainted with the game, and tipped his baseball cap back so he could more properly glare at Walt. Walt settled back with a sigh and acquiesced. No, he had not played before. Ransom’s eyebrows stayed raised up high, his face taunting, daring a rebuttal. “OK then. Aunt Donna, as the moderator, if you find anything that says the contrary in the rules — and you won’t — please correct me, but until then, I’m my own team. That’s right: I’m the _me_ in _this_ team. Don’t need any of you jamokes holding me back.” 

Harlan snorted with glee, waving off his grandson’s bravado. “All right, all right. Are we going to posture all evening or play the damned game?”

Ransom’s blue eyes also lit up as he showily cracked his knuckles. “Oh ho ho, a swipe from the old man. Comin’ for ya, Gramps.”

That’s how it started.

Two and a half hours later, the killer had not yet been uncovered. But Harlan was tipsy and roaring with laughter, Ransom was halfway drunk on Old Fashioneds, getting progressively louder with every swallow, Linda had taken off her linen blazer and was shaking her finger in Walt’s face, and Walt was grinding his teeth so hard that Marta could hear it from several feet away. That’s when she made her escape to the kitchen, if only for a few minutes of no one yelling in her ear.

She’d drawn the proverbial short straw, which meant that Harlan had gone into overdrive to make it seem like he, not she, was the murderer. Donna was a terrible moderator, Linda was screeching, and Walt kept flubbing his lines out of frustration, but no one seemed to have a clue who had committed the heinous crime of having someone whacked.

Disaster struck, however, when Ransom was allowed to ask Marta a question to which there was no obvious way not to lie: “Were you at the scene of the crime?” 

Harlan’s face tensed up, almost imperceptibly, making Marta’s heart drop. She couldn’t let Harlan down, not when he was having so much fun. She couldn’t ruin the game. She stalled as long as she could, and blurted out the smallest possible lie she could manage without projectile vomiting. 

Sometimes, if she said something really fast, with as few words as possible, the bile didn’t rise up in her throat right away. Maybe she could make it to the bathroom, if she made up an excuse to go back to the kitchen. 

Grabbing the dirty plate from the second helping of pie that Harlan had eaten, Marta stood up and said, “I have been to the scene of a crime. Oh I forgot, Fran needed—”

She was up and headed down the hallway before anyone had a chance to object. They’d forget about her immediately. She tried hard to stay in the background in any family interactions, but here she was, on the spot and a murderous mafia capo, no less.

The pie plate clattered in the small sink while Marta collapsed to her knees in front of the toilet. She puked up the fizzy water she’d just guzzled, but luckily nothing from the BBQ followed. Taking big gasps of air, she rocked back to sit on her heels, thanking the gods that Fran was a very thorough cleaner of toilets.

That was the worst of it, Marta told herself. She dry-heaved once more, but it wasn’t too bad. After she stood up to flush the toilet, she turned on the sink tap to rinse out her mouth. 

In the mirror, she saw the same old Marta. She didn’t look like a murderous crime boss at all. She looked like her Tia Mafe after a couple of glasses of sangria: Big, dark circles under her eyes, too many freckles stark against her face, a little pale, probably from the nausea. Marta swished and spit in the sink, and then rinsed off the plate while she was at it. She finished up by splashing fresh, cool water on her face and used an ornately embroidered hand towel to dab her skin and then swipe the plate dry. 

Everyone lies sometimes, Marta reminded herself. This was just a game. For fun.

She stepped back to open the bathroom door and pulled the doorknob toward her, but before she was even able to process what was happening, someone tall was muscling their way in. Marta gasped and looked up to see Ransom pushing the door against her outstretched hand firmly. Did he not know she was in here? Had he knocked and she’d missed it? It wasn’t until they made eye contact and he deftly closed the door behind him, blocking her way out, that she realized he’d cornered her intentionally.

“Oh, hey, Marta,” he said coyly, continuing to advance toward her, closer … closer, until her back was pressed up against a large framed poster of an Art Nouveau devil holding a bottle of absinthe. With a giant grin spread across his face and a quirked eyebrow, Ransom asked curiously, “You OK? Were you just … puking?”

“What?” Marta’s eyebrows shot up in staged surprise. “Who? Me? What?”

“What’s that all about?” He was so close, she could smell him. His breath smelled like maraschino cherries and whiskey. His skin smelled like coconut oil and salt. “Are you sick?”

“What?” Marta repeated, protectively drawing the dirty pie plate up to her chest between them, like the world’s most delicate, ineffective shield.

“Don’t say 'what' again.” He narrowed his eyes as he peered down at her, different this time. They’d never been in this close of proximity. It was intimate and terrifying. Even more so when he placed his hands on the wall on either side of her, caging her in. She went to duck under his arm but he was too fast and lowered his elbow to block her. “And don’t say you drank too much — you’ve had 80 seltzers and not one beer. You’re not drunk.”

“You are, though,” Marta blurted. She glared up at him more bravely than she felt. “Hugh, I’m serious — back up.”

“Oh, calling me Hugh, now? Is that —” He was laughing at her, that sly grin twisting his mouth into obvious mockery. When he caught her glance at his smirking mouth, he licked his upper lip. His voice was softer now. Confidential. “Marta, come on: Call me Ransom. I just make Franny call me Hugh because it pisses her off.”

“But you make the ‘help’ call you Hugh,” she insisted, confused. 

“Pfft,” Ransom refuted, feigning hurt. “You know I don’t think of _you_ as the help. You’re like family. Or—OK, maybe not family, but you’re like … you’re like my grandfather’s babysitter.”

“Ha! I’m a registered nurse. And you better not let Harlan hear you talking like—”

“Whatever. You’re the family babysitter,” Ransom pressed, taunting her. He moved even closer to her and she could feel the heat radiating off his body. “I’ve got a history of fucking the family babysitters. Did you know that?”

Marta’s mouth dropped open in shock. He wasn’t just trying to intimidate her — he was _hitting_ on her. But why? “What?”

His eyes narrowed, appraising her. “Why were you just puking in here? Are you pregnant or something?” Marta was too shocked to answer. She flinched as Ransom edged closer. With a low hum, he pressed her further, asking, “Did someone throw a baby up into you? Who’d you let in there?” 

“You’re disgusting,” she gasped, finding her voice. 

“You bet,” Ransom replied with a wink. “But you’re into it, aren’t you? You want me. You want this D.”

Instead of answering, to keep the bile from rising up, Marta pressed her lips together and shook her head, dismissing him. 

With a cheeky smirk, Random moved even closer and Marta felt herself start to go weak. She couldn’t answer him. She’d definitely throw up.

“Hm, interesting,” Ransom murmured. His jaw set, a small movement that Marta couldn’t miss in such close proximity. Then: “Let’s try something. You’ve wanted me for a long time, haven’t you?”

Marta snorted, “No! What are you doing? Why are you being like this?”

Ransom’s jaw stayed set as he nodded, waiting. Marta trembled slightly but didn’t retch.

He tried again. “OK, what about: Were you checking me out earlier?”

That, Marta couldn’t deny. Not without dry-heaving. Before she could overthink it, she rolled her eyes and replied, “Oh god, you mean did I _look_ at you when you spoke to me? Get over yourself!”

“So, yes, you were. Clearly, you’re … fine, so you were.” 

Suddenly, Ransom rocked back and peered at her carefully. “But, you were puking in here a second ago, weren’t you?”

“I’m … it’s … uh, maybe heat stroke?” she suggested in a weak whisper. That wasn’t _exactly_ a lie. It was a question! Surely, she wouldn’t—

Suddenly, she hiccuped inwardly and burped outwardly. Just once, each, in rapid succession. _Oh no._

“Gross,” Ransom grimaced, still mostly amused as he idly waved his hand between their faces as if to clear the air. “Are you going to puke again? Right now?”

Marta shook her head and pressed her lips together even more tightly. An involuntary heave wracked her body and she lurched toward Ransom’s broad chest. He took a step back in earnest, clearly worried she was going to spew all over him.

“Holy fuck, was _that_ a lie?” He hissed, frantic. “You’re going to puke?”

Marta shivered and took a deep breath, the first of many, trying to keep her diaphragm from spasming. “Please, stop asking me questions.”

Ransom’s eyes darted back and forth, studying her face as he seemed to be working through this new information. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s when I ask you—”

“No, no it’s not,” Marta pleaded, the wave of nausea washing over her just as she was struck by how important it was that he did not figure this out, that Ransom did not know her secret. For one thing, it would ruin the game, and for another thing … he was definitely going to ask her if she wanted to hook up with him. It was coming, she knew it. And she couldn’t stomach, so to speak, the look of smugness he’d have on his face if he knew the truth. After a small dry-heave, she moaned, “Please don’t ruin the game for Harlan.”

Ransom stopped. He sighed before he nodded slowly, watching her from a safe distance to make sure she didn’t vomit. “I won’t say anything. Does Harlan know you have this … disorder thing?”

Marta nodded quickly, looking down in shame. 

“Anyone else?” He asked, moving closer to her again, now that she wasn’t actively retching. Marta imagined he was wondering how to use this advantage. “Anyone else in the family know? Fran?”

Raising her eyes to look up at him, she solemnly shook her head. “Just Harlan and my family.”

“I see,” Ransom exhaled, attempting to sound consoling as he started moving closer. “My grandfather, your family … and me.”

“And you.” Marta could barely breathe. She felt like she’d had the wind knocked out of her. Why did he smell so good?

“Right, so, then,” he sniffed resolutely, taking the plate out of her hands and placing it carefully on the back of the toilet. When he twisted back toward her, he moved in close enough to move his hands, cupping her hips firmly. She was trapped. He chewed his lip thoughtfully before asking, “Are you turned on right now?” 

Marta swallowed deeply and didn’t answer.

“Uh-uh. Tell me the truth. I know your secret now. I’ll know if you lie.”

Cursing him in her mind, she nodded imperceptibly. She was turned on, yes. It was an immovable fact. She was suddenly very hot, and a little sweaty, and it was all Ransom’s fault.

“Do you want to fuck me?” He asked quietly, pressing himself against her.

She felt the buckle of his web belt urging against her belly. And, lower than that, something hard and warm driving against her hip. Oh god. He was … and it was … and she was excited, too. _Oh god, am I getting wet?_ , she thought frantically.

“What, _here_? With the game still going?” Marta whispered, more than a little aghast and embarrassed at how the feel of his cock against her hip made her woozy with want. It wouldn’t be hard to tell the truth about that. No, she did not technically want to fuck Ransom Thrombey — at least not in the bathroom where she’d just thrown up.

“Not here,” he corrected, reading her expression. “Definitely not here. Later tonight. After you put Harlan down for his nighty-night.”

“Ransom, please. This is wrong. Please stop torturing me.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments as her pathetic plea hung in the air between them. 

“Well, I want to fuck _you_. You’re kinda sexy. Plus, I told you, I have a thing for babysitters,” he said, his smarminess compounding. He moved against her, lightly grinding what seemed to be a fairly thick erection hidden in his cargo shorts against Marta’s dress-covered hip. “Mmm. Look what you’re doing to me.”

“I’m not a babysitter,” she insisted lamely, but then he had his hand between her legs, making her squirm and take a sharp intake of breath. With a soft moan mingled in an exhale, she confessed, “But I do … want you.”

“You want to fuck me,” Ransom confirmed. That smile again, sinister and arrogant. Then, after what must have seemed like her consent, he was digging her skirt up, up, up with scrambling fingers, until he pressed his palm against the wetness in her panties. “Ooh, look what we have here. So, then: tonight.”

Marta’s eyes started to roll back as he pushed the elastic gusset of her underwear aside and deftly slid his middle finger into her. They both moaned at the sensation — her hot wetness, the pressure of his finger inside her — but before he could get any further, she firmly shoved both of his hands away from her and smacked him in his (predictably) smug, arrogant, manipulative face.

Ransom reeled back, open-mouth surprised and incredulous, but amused. Aroused, even.

Marta took advantage of his surprise and pushed by him, leaving the tiny enclosure. She pulled open the door — as Ransom clutched at her from behind, barely able to pinch the fabric of her summer dress away from her waist — only to find another surprised male face on the other side of the bathroom door. 

“Harlan!” Marta squeaked. “Are you OK? I mean, is everything OK?”

“Yes, of course, I’m fine,” Harlan replied to her quickly, shooting a look at Ransom, who was simultaneously clearing his throat, straightening up to his full height, and attempting to hide his erection. It was Ransom’s turn to look busted, but somehow he fought off the shame. He looked like he was the one who’d discovered someone else's untoward behavior. 

Harlan, for his part, glowered at them both suspiciously. “What’s going on here? Why are you in a lavatory together?”

Marta rushed to explain, but the words failed her in her throat. What _were_ they doing in the lavatory together?

“Game over, old man,” Ransom shrugged nonchalantly. “I know Marta’s secret.”

Marta looked to Harlan to see his reaction, the concern evident on her face. 

Harlan’s shoulders drooped, but just a tad, before his ire perked his frame back up. He cocked an eyebrow at his favorite grandson (it wasn’t like he had much of a selection to choose from), and retorted icily, “Do you really?” 

Turning to Marta, his expression was wrought with sincere worry, “Are you all right, my dear? Has Ransom been … inappropriate?”

“How do you mean?” Marta asked, stalling. Because wow, yes, so inappropriate. Just like she was now inappropriately turned on and probably going to have inappropriate sex with the Thrombley prodigal grandson.

“I mean, has he cheated at the game? Does he know your _secret_?” Harlan asked soberly, and suddenly Marta understood. He thought the secret they were talking about was if she was the murderer. It didn’t occur to him that Ransom knew about her tendency to vomit after lying. “Is the game over?”

Marta nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Harlan. I told you … I’m bad at lying games.”

Harlan grumbled a little and then shook his head dismissively, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s all right, Marta. I’m disappointed, but I should head up to the Land of Nod anyway. Besides, it’s not your fault that my grandson can only win by cheating.”

“Hey!” Ransom interjected with a snort. “Just using the available tools and resources. Just like you taught me.”

“Stick to playing Go, my boy.” Harlan was slurring his words. It really was time for bed. But he still had enough fire in him to possessively loop an arm around Marta’s shoulders. With his deep, rich voice, he warned Ransom, “Next time, leave the innocent bystanders out of it.”

Ransom glared doubtfully at his grandfather for a few seconds, and then petulantly started to make his way out of the bathroom. On the way, he wiped his face with the hand that was probably still wet from Marta’s arousal. He did an exaggerated double take at his own fingers just before he snarked at Harlan, “Innocent bystander — right.”

Asshole. What an asshole. Marta was itching to slap him again. Or bite him somewhere soft.

As Ransom passed, he murmured into the tendrils of hair behind Marta’s ear, loud enough so Harlan could hear, competitive to the end: “Gotcha ... killer.”

Marta swallowed thickly, put on her bravest face, even though her knees felt embarrassingly wobbly, and put a friendly arm around Harlan’s waist. “OK, you two, that’s enough. Game’s over. Let’s get you off to bed, then?”

Harlan went without further complaint. But just before Marta followed her friend and patient up the stairs, she stole a look back toward where they’d left Ransom. He was leaning against the wood paneling of the hallway, watching Marta trip over her own feet with great interest, while he jostled the fabric at the front of his shorts to obscure his arousal. He shook his head at her, slowly, like she was in big, big trouble.

Just before Marta rounded the corner and lost sight of Ransom, she caught his exaggerated wink. He stage whispered, purely for her benefit, “Later,” and then she — thankfully — turned a corner and couldn’t see his stupid face or his long, long eyelashes anymore.


End file.
